


Vinegar and Turpentine

by JennaCupcakes



Series: Beauty and the Devil [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angry Sex, Blow Jobs, Death, Emotional Manipulation, Found Family, Guilt, Hand Jobs, M/M, Porn With Plot, but in the codependent and unhealthy way, i'm kidding about the wedding, spoilers up to chapter 5, still about loyalties, three funerals and a wedding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-20 16:49:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21059945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaCupcakes/pseuds/JennaCupcakes
Summary: Their road to freedom continues, gravemounds as milestones.





	Vinegar and Turpentine

**Author's Note:**

> Here I am, back on my cowboy bullshit, this time without the guiding hand of Max Weber to show me the way. No archive warnings, same as last time: Dutch is a Bad Man who does Questionable Things.
> 
> Title taken from Hadestown (this time from the Original Cast Recording) again, because Anaïs Mitchell owns my soul, I guess?

_“Beauty and the devil are the same thing.”_ – Robert Mapplethorpe

* * *

**Clemens Point.**

Arthur hadn’t spent a lot of time trying to imagine what dying would feel like.

It was funny. He’d seen men die, killed men, even been close to death himself a couple of times – but he’d never thought about the before part. He’d always thought of life and death as binary categories, not a gradient of reds and purples. Now, it turned out there was a lot of not-life to get through between the living and the dying.

Arthur felt cheated.

“Get the reverend!”

“I need hot water!”

“Move _over_, John!”

A pair of strong arms around him. The smell of cigars. A surge of fear, a memory, a warning that needed shouting –

“It’s alright, Arthur, you’re safe!”

Tilly’s voice, full of concern. The high pitch of panic because the words he’d been trying to force out had come out as nothing more than incoherent babbling. Dying was fuzzy, was treacherously soft around the edges. Took entirely too long, because he kept catching glimpses of distressed faces, and that was not something he wanted to consider. He wouldn’t be missed. _Shouldn’t_ be missed.

The smell of cigars. He had to focus.

“Arthur, it’s _alright_.”

Dutch’s voice. Close to his ear. He needed to warn –

“Jesus, Arthur, please!” The voice turning away from him. “Somebody help me get him to a bed.”

Arthur was lifted up, and his shoulder and ribs and head protested. He must have screamed, because Charles’ voice was piping up in soothing tones.

“We’re sorry, Arthur, we just need to get you somewhere we can take care of you. Just a moment longer. That wound looks nasty, Dutch.”

Silence, from Dutch. Panic, heavy in Arthur’s gut, at the silence, though surely it was still Dutch holding him, carrying him, setting him down on a bed? Dutch, who pressed a worried hand to his forehead, the silhouette backlit by the sun, too bright for Arthur’s eyes?

“Colm,” Arthur said, and that word alone cost him so much, he felt like it was taking the last air from his lungs. He pondered the newly discovered gradient of death and longed for the energy to take a running start at it. There was so much of the in-between.

“I know, boy. I know.”

Something un-knotted in Arthur’s throat at that. He blamed the sob on the pain in his shoulder as Charles prodded at the wound, then signaled something to Susan Grimshaw.

The colors were less angry-red now, more in the blue-green hues. Arthur’s eyes were heavy, but there was one more thought gnawing at him, something he couldn’t forget –

“Arthur, you need to relax!”

Arthur wouldn’t have, save for the fact that it was a command from Dutch, and obeying Dutch’s commands was wired into him. Against his will he settled, wondering if Dutch would still be there when he woke up, or if the warning he wanted to shout but couldn’t remember would be the thing that got him.

* * *

When Arthur woke next, there were voices coming from not too far outside the tent. It was dark, he couldn’t tell how long he’d been out, but was surprised to find himself alive at all. This wasn’t how he had expected things to go.

“They used him, Hosea. They used him to get to me.” Dutch sounded pained, weary, a high-pitched whining lament. “It’s just like with Annabelle.”

“To get to _us_, you mean.”

Hosea’s voice was quieter, concerned. The sound of steady and solid advice.

“Colm wanted to get to me. That’s what he does. He picks the people closest to me and then he–“ A moment of silence. Arthur pictured a sob, suppressed. “– He takes them away.”

“Yes, but Arthur’s back.”

Arthur knew the tone of voice Hosea was using. It was the same way he talked the Reverend down from a drunken stupor, the same way he got Bill to abandon his anger when he’d worked himself into a fit. Dutch called it his peacemaker voice. Arthur wondered if Dutch had enough presence of mind to realize it was being used on him.

“We need to look forward now, Dutch.”

“… just as he did with Annabelle,” Dutch muttered.

“Oh, you didn’t even like Annabelle that much!” Hosea snapped. The silence that followed was the empty ring after a gunshot.

Arthur found himself holding his breath, picturing the moment that held the possibility of violence, but the blow never came.

Dutch laughed, sharply, the sound of rubbing alcohol and barbed wire fencing.

“We’ll be alright, Hosea.”

A clap on the shoulder, footsteps moving away. The sound of a step away from the precipice.

* * *

“I’m sorry.”

The stench of alcohol and stale tobacco. Arthur’s face felt feverishly warm, and he didn’t know whether that was a bad sign or not. Mrs. Grimshaw was fond of saying that a little fever went a long way towards burning away an infection, but Arthur had seen too many men succumb to bullet wounds and the fevers that followed to entirely believe her. At least he had woken up again.

Dutch looked pathetic. Slumped over in the chair next to Arthur’s sickbed, his face was swollen red from the alcohol, his eyes glassy. A strong gust of wind could have knocked him over, the way he swayed perilously.

A hand came out, clasped Arthur’s arm to steady himself, then remembered Arthur’s injury. Eyes snapped into focus, centering on Arthur.

“I’m so sorry.”

Arthur’s chest still felt tight, and the feeling multiplied by a hundred when he looked at Dutch. All of it, nearly gone, all gone just for… Arthur.

“I hope you were gonna leave me there to rot, Dutch.” Speaking still hurt. His throat felt sandpaper-raw. “I ain’t worth the freedom of all these folk.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Arthur.” Dutch was slurring his words. “I would have moved Heaven and Hell to get you back.”

Arthur looked over at the man and worked hard to feel anything but fear, tight in his throat, heavy in his gut. He didn’t know what would be worse – Dutch lying to Arthur, lying to himself even, to make himself feel better… or Dutch being sincere, and willing to risk the gangs’ lives just to get Arthur back.

“That don’t make it right, Dutch.”

* * *

Hosea sat with him often, when Mrs. Grimshaw was busy. He sat, and read, and coughed, and wrote. Arthur had told him he was no little kid anymore, and Hosea had silenced him with a pointed look that said he still knew better.

“I heard you,” Arthur confessed one day, when the fever had abated, and he felt a bit more like himself.

“Heard me when, boy?”

Hosea didn’t call him _boy_ anymore. Not normally. Arthur had outgrown that, but the days by Arthur’s bedside had brought back the caretaker in Hosea, the man he’d thought he could be once upon a time. The sort of man who might raise a child and do it right.

“With Dutch. He was talking about Annabelle.”

Hosea stilled, then slowly put the book down. When he looked at Arthur, it was with resignation on his face.

“You know how he gets.”

“He should have left me there, Hosea.”

The guilt felt like drowning in reverse, the water coming up from his lungs and choking him from the inside out. The feeling of being a liability.

“I ain’t worth it. For him to take it personally.”

Hosea mustered him. Then, apropos of nothing, he said – “You seem better.”

Arthur made a noncommittal noise.

“Let’s have a look at that,” Hosea declared and peeled back some of the bandages to inspect the wound. He made a few sounds that indicated nothing in particular. When he spoke, still nominally inspecting the wound, it was as though he was lending some sort of plausible deniability to what he was saying.

“You don’t get to decide what Dutch Van Der Linde takes personally. He just gets that way in his head sometimes. And I don’t mean to say he doesn’t truly love you, or whoever he’s talking about at a given time, but… I think sometimes the idea of a person is bigger in his head than the actual person.”

Arthur nodded, letting Hosea bandage him back up. “Like with Annabelle.”

Hosea’s smile when he sat down was the apologetic smile of the pattern-recognizer.

“When I die, Arthur, I want you to move on. God knows I deserve whatever I’ve got coming. But you don’t need to tear yourself up over it.”

Arthur wanted to tell Hosea to stop talking about things like that. Hosea’s smile said that he knew. Then Hosea leaned over and pulled him into a careful embrace.

“I was worried sick about you, Arthur.”

Arthur swallowed, thickly.

It was a burden, being loved. It carried the possibility of being missed.

* * *

The next time Dutch came to Arthur’s sickbed, he was sober.

That was worse.

Arthur woke from fitful sleep, skin clammy and his back sore from too much lying on it. He had always thought rest was bad for you, and here was the proof. The vestiges of illness still made it hard to rouse him from sleep, but when he did, he noticed Dutch by his bedside.

Dutch was focused on Arthur like Arthur was one of his books – brow furrowed; eyes unblinking.

“Hey,” Arthur said groggily, trying to shake the feeling of unease by speaking into the heavy silence. Again, it was dark, and the half-light that came in through the closed flaps of the tent indicated a time around sunset or sunrise. Dutch looked like something out of a dream – not one of the nice ones.

“I should have listened to you.”

Arthur wasn’t awake enough for this. He pulled himself up on the bed, winced when it put too much force on his shoulder, adjusted his position. Dutch’s eyes followed him.

“Yeah, you should’ve, Dutch. But you didn’t. What’s done is done.” He shook his head. “For what it’s worth, I think you made an admirable effort. Proof you’re the bigger man and all that.”

Dutch seemed desperate to focus on every part of Arthur at once. His eyes were raking over Arthur’s body in desperate flitting motions, like he was cataloguing it. Arthur reached out a hand to still the worried mind, to bring Dutch back from where his thoughts had taken him.

Dutch’s gaze snapped into focus.

“I’m sorry, Arthur. The chance of peace with Colm ain’t worth your life.”

“You’ve made worse bargains,” Arthur pointed out.

“Don’t –“ Dutch hissed, voice pressed, all anger squashed into one word, “ – _ever_ say that.”

Arthur carefully let out a breath, holding Dutch’s gaze.

“I won’t, then.”

Dutch got up, paced the length of the room, then sat down again.

“When have I ever given you the feeling that you’re expendable to me, Arthur?”

Arthur was beginning to understand. This was about Dutch’s guilt – not about Arthur.

“You haven’t.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Dutch patted his arm. “And I’m glad you’re back with us.”

Arthur was too tired for this – too tired to reassure Dutch, too tired to try and decipher his thoughts. He didn’t want to be here, dealing with the aftermath of death and the knowledge that, because of him, his entire family could have been killed. He wanted one promise.

“Don’t ever think about coming for me, Dutch. When they get me, they get me.”

Dutch was not a man to grant wishes.

“You’re _mine_, Arthur Morgan. Not Colm O’Driscoll’s. He doesn’t get to take from me.”

There was anger in those clenched hands and frantic eyes, anger that hadn’t found an outlet. Arthur knew how it felt to be spoiling for a fight and be denied the possibility, so he understood the impulse that brought Dutch to put a hand on his shoulder and haul him in, their foreheads touching. Still, Arthur wished to God he would be spared being at the receiving end of Dutch’s denied impulses for once. As he was staring into Dutch’s eyes, he felt very precisely that if he were just allowed to _be_ for once instead of being what people expected him to be, he could figure out where he’d gone wrong. But Dutch leaned in, and kissed Arthur, and the sense of clarity vanished, replaced by the muddy waters of wondering where Dutch ended, and he began.

Kissing Dutch felt like the extension of an argument where Arthur wasn’t allowed to speak. God, how he’d like to, sometimes, ask Dutch what it all meant and where they were going, but he knew Dutch was just going to ask him to have faith instead. It was easier to follow Dutch than to understand him.

And so, Arthur let himself be laid back when Dutch’s firm hand pushed him, held his tongue even when the kiss ended, and it was just Dutch’s hand on the side of his face.

“See, Colm knows you’re special to me. He thinks he can use that against me. But I know there’s not a force in the world that could keep us apart, Arthur.”

* * *

**INTERLUDE: Bill Williamson buries Sean McGuire**

It’s funny, he’s never dug a grave as more than a means to hide evidence. Always hurried and quick, and the getting done the only part that mattered. Now that it’s for Sean, it feels important that he do it proper.

He measures it out, three strides long and one stride wide, marks it with the shovel, starts to dig. He finds he doesn’t mind the backbreaking aspect of it so much when it’s for Sean. It feels good, the way punching someone feels good. He’s sweating, his palms feel hot and raw and there are blisters forming where he’s gripping the shovel tight, and still he digs. Six feet deep. Or the closest approximation he can measure.

When it’s done, his shirt is soaking wet. He does his best to bring Sean down gently, tries not to look at his face while he does.

Then, he stands over the open grave.

It’s funny. He feels like he’s supposed to feel something, like this is a somber moment and he’ll miss Sean and he should feel like crying but he doesn’t – and then he does. When he does, it feels bad like being punched feels bad, all shame and rage packed into a tight fist. Rage at the emptiness in front of him, the grave and the place where Sean is supposed to be.

Bill Williamson has never cried. When a man cries in the forest, surrounded only by trees and the sound of birds, did it really happen?

The urge to leave hits him suddenly, like if he stares at the open grave any longer, something is going to happen that he’s not prepared for. But he still has to fill it all back up again, and that’s worse than the digging. Bill Williamson knows from experience that digging yourself into a hole is easy, it’s harder getting out. And suddenly he envies the funerals he’s seen over the years, the ones where the folks are all dressed up nice and they cry on each other’s shoulders, and then they leave and somebody else does the gruesome work of putting whoever they’re mourning into the ground proper. Out here it’s just Bill, and Sean, and the sound the dirt makes when the first few shovels of earth spray over his clothes.

It’s a soft sound, reminiscent of the patter of rain.

The sun hangs low in the sky when he finishes. He looks around for something to mark the grave with, but he can’t think of anything, and there’s nothing here, really. He can’t think of any prayers, either, though he tries a couple of times.

_Dear Father, up there in Heaven…_

_Hail Mary, full of grace…_

He shakes his head. It’s too late for Sean, anyway, and Bill wants a drink.

He turns his back on the grave. It feels final, like the last knockout blow in a barfight. He knows the feeling well.

* * *

**Shady Belle.**

Time passed, and Sean stayed dead. Somehow that always surprised Arthur most. Whenever they lost somebody, he felt their absence as something that should be temporary, like they were out scouting or following a lead and would come stumbling back into camp eventually. Maybe it was a feeling that had been reinforced by the miraculous return of John – still not forgiven – but Marston stubbornly remained the only member of the gang to return from the dead.

Time passed, and Sean stayed dead. Karen stopped singing.

Surviving was anticlimactic. Not a good ending to a story, not even a good continuation. Arthur couldn’t help but feel the sharp injustice of it all – that he should have died with Colm, and maybe then Sean wouldn’t be dead. Sean could’ve still lived a life. All Arthur had was… this.

Another camp. Jack gone.

And Dutch, in the doorframe of Arthur’s as-of-yet empty room, with a glint in his eyes.

“Let’s ride out.”

“Give me a minute, Dutch.”

Arthur wondered if it was still his wound, the aftermath of injury, that made him so tired, but somehow, he didn’t think so. This exhaustion was different. It sat in his bones. Sat like lead in his lungs.

“What’s the matter, Arthur?”

“Nothing.”

Arthur glanced off to the side, trying to think of something to say that would placate Dutch but also get him out of this situation. Alas, Dutch rarely ever left a thing alone before he had gotten what he wanted.

“Come on now, son, don’t give me that.”

The light slanted through the high windows in a way Arthur hadn’t seen before. It seemed different in the bayou, filtered through greens and yellows. He’d never thought he’d get to see this place, didn’t even want to be here.

West. That’s where they were supposed to be.

“Ok, I’m good.”

Arthur got up from his bed, reached for his gun belt. Dutch grabbed his hand before he could pick it up. His look spoke of knowing, spoke of a man not convinced by Arthur’s attempt at deflection.

“What’s the matter?”

“Are you ever not going to take it all in stride?” Arthur replied. It wasn’t what he’d wanted to say. Sometimes he didn’t realize how close his feelings sat under the surface until they all came bubbling out of him. “First Sean, now Jack, the fucking _Pinkertons_ almost –“

Dutch raised his hand and Arthur, well-practiced at this, held his tongue.

“We can’t do anything about the dead, son. I’ll do what I can for the living.”

Arthur sighed, helplessly.

“Just once,” he said, “Just once, could you try to be _human_?”

The glint in Dutch’s eyes spoke of recognition, like when he figured out the last trick they needed to pull off a plan. Arthur could never follow him down those roads, just found himself at the other end of one of Dutch’s schemes, coming through, wondering how he hadn’t seen it.

Dutch crowded him against the wall. That, at least, Arthur was familiar with.

“Arthur,” he whispered, leaned forward to speak the words directly into Arthur’s ear, “It’s not that I don’t care. But I’m their leader. You understand that, don’t you?”

_Their_ leader. Implication heavy in the air that Arthur was something set aside, something special. It got exhausting being something special. But it was also –

“Of course you understand.”

Dutch’s hand on his side, the other hand briefly caressing his cheek. Dutch, still not looking him in the eye.

“Just tell me you miss him, too,” Arthur said.

“Of course I do,” Dutch said, and Arthur didn’t believe him. But Dutch had done as he’d asked.

Surrender always felt like falling backwards, not sure what he’d hit or when. Most of the times, Dutch caught him. Other times – Arthur chose to forget about those times.

Dutch held him against the wall and breathed deep. Arthur shivered, tension in his body a tightly coiled spring. Not yet sure whether he was going to be caught. He could feel Dutch’s hardness against his leg. Knew that he was hard himself. The trip to the city seemed momentarily forgotten.

“I missed _you_ when you were gone, Arthur.”

Arthur breathed out through his nose. Carefully, ever so carefully, because the panic of loss was still simmering under the surface from when he’d thought he’d failed Dutch, killed them all, by not being insistent enough. By not questioning Micah more. Which brought them back to Dutch, and the faith he asked Arthur to have in him.

“Yeah, well, you shouldn’t have.”

Dutch sank a hand into Arthur’s hair and pulled, hard. Used the grip he had on it to tilt Arthur’s head back, kiss him to silence him. Fucking finally.

Arthur didn’t know how to ask for things. Didn’t know what he was allowed to ask for in this. As conflict resolution went, this was probably not the most sustainable method.

Dutch led him the short few steps to the bed. He sat down on the edge of the bed, still strong and confident even when Arthur felt like glass. Dutch pulled him into his lap. Arthur came to rest, straddling Dutch, and Dutch’s hand cupped him through his pants. He breathed out, relieved.

“I understand doubt,” Dutch whispered in his ear, “It’s the human impulse. But Arthur, it’s not good for you.”

Dutch’s fingers, working to undo his pants, pulling out his cock, stroking him.

“See what it’s done to you. It eats you up if you let it.”

His other arm wrapped around Arthur’s waist, pulling him in close, holding him in place. Like this, Arthur could believe him. Being held by Dutch, a hand on his cock, Dutch’s voice in his ear was the only thing that made sense. It silenced the doubt in his mind.

“Faith. Faith will save you.”

Arthur made a desperate acquiescent noise as Dutch swiped his thumb over the head of his cock.

“Show me that you have faith,” Dutch muttered. He pulled back, held Arthur’s eyes for a moment, a silent command that only took Arthur a short while to decipher.

When he did, he extricated himself from Dutch’s lap, sank to his knees, cock still out and hard and dripping. Unbuttoned Dutch’s pants.

Dutch brought his hand back into Arthur’s hair. Pushed Arthur’s head down into his crotch, and Arthur screwed his eyes shut and sucked in a breath that was relief and nerves in equal measures.

The smell was overwhelming. Dutch let him set his own pace, and so Arthur took him into his mouth slowly, unfamiliar yet still known. A connection that was a fluid thing. No longer just about control but about… something else.

Arthur sucked Dutch’s cock into his mouth and Dutch hissed, his hands digging into the covers on Arthur’s bed. The floor creaked as Arthur shifted on his knees to find a more comfortable position. Dutch knitted a hand into Arthur’s hair to keep him close. Giving him a purpose. For the first time in days, Arthur felt grounded.

He could have lost Dutch. He could have lost Dutch, but he didn’t. And Dutch could have been disappointed with him for disappearing, but he wasn’t. The weight of Dutch’s cock on his tongue, the taste of him filling his mouth were tangible reminders that he had not lost Dutch, and that he was still in his good graces.

Dutch pushed him down further, and Arthur gagged. Dutch kept going.

This was how it went: Every moment of connection undercut by the need for control.

Arthur suddenly wished that Dutch would let him set the pace with a desperation that surprised him. If he could take his time, maybe he could peel back some of Dutch’s self-control, make him admit that things were wrong and even Dutch didn’t quite know how to fix them. It would make Arthur feel better about his own doubts for one thing. But Dutch didn’t want that. He wanted Arthur’s mouth, open and wet, the pace dictated by Dutch’s guiding hand. Arthur would take what he could get.

Dutch’s pleasure was always a quiet affair, save for a little hiss or mumbled words. When Arthur looked up at him – and wasn’t that a familiar feeling, the sensation of looking up at Dutch in the physical and metaphorical sense – he still looked composed, collected. Only his eyes looked darker when they met Arthur’s, like something primal was slumbering just below the surface.

Dutch pushed him down again. Arthur let him.

When Dutch’s quiet praises became more frantic, Arthur prepared himself. Dutch’s hips twitched once, twice, and then he came down Arthur’s throat in a way that was familiar but felt like it shouldn’t be. He held Arthur there for a minute, his cock softening in Arthur’s mouth, before he allowed Arthur to pull off and wipe his mouth.

Arthur was still painfully hard.

He made to stand up, the ache in his knees speaking of the fact that he wasn’t a young man anymore, but Dutch pulled him back into his lap as though they hadn’t stopped. Arthur hissed when Dutch’s hand closed around his cock, feeling blessed and used in equal measure.

“It means a lot. That you trust me.” Dutch’s voice was hoarse, the first real sign that he felt anything. “You’ve earned this, Arthur.”

There were a thousand questions on Arthur’s mind. The details of any of Dutch’s plans as vague to him as ever. He wondered if there was a point where faith ended and turned into stupidity. But Dutch had never let him down, was caring for him even now, and it was easy to fall back into those arms, however high the price.

Arthur buried his face in Dutch’s shoulder and Dutch ran a soothing hand up and down his back. Arthur’s legs were shaking. His mind a narrow focus on the point where Dutch’s hands were touching him, edging him on, bringing him closer and closer to the edge.

He came, and it still felt like falling with no end in sight.

* * *

Hosea Matthews had a list of things he wanted to do before he died.

It wasn’t a physical list, nothing written down in full anywhere, not least of all because parts of it would be self-incriminating. No, it was a list he kept in his head, that he went over in the morning before he started his day and at night before he went to sleep.

He wanted to die in his bed.

That wasn’t a wish he’d harbored when he was younger. Dying wasn’t a thought that crossed his mind, and when it did, it was simply the certainty that one day he’d meet someone who’d do him dirtier than he did them. That was the way men like him lived. Now that he was old, body wracked by injury and illness, it suddenly seemed a tantalizingly close goal, attainable and unimaginably desirable. A peaceful death. No cause for revenge. Just the last page of an eventful story, one that left you with a bit of nostalgia, but not so much that you couldn’t go on living your life.

There were some financial affairs he had to take care of.

He had stashes of cash hidden away for rainy days that he would have to start collecting as soon as he could. Investments he made, schemes that were still paying off that would serve no one when he was gone. It wasn’t enough to get the gang out of their current predicament, but it would pay for food, and Hosea hated loose ends.

There were some other things that were less concrete on his mind.

He wanted desperately to see John and Abigail make a home for young Jack.

He realized that one was more about living vicariously through a boy he’d considered his son for the greater part of his life now, and he’d promised himself he’d never do that. Hosea wished he could have the kind of stability and life that still seemed within reach for John and Abigail, and he did not want to see Jack shackled to a life like they all had been. If there was a different world in the making out there, one that had no place for the likes of him or Dutch, then Jack should see to it that he become a part of that world sooner rather than later. Hosea’s motto had always been to adapt to survive.

He wanted Dutch to be safe.

This was not an item he would comment on, ever, same as one would never comment on the desire to draw their next breath. At the same time, he knew that safety was an illusion, the opposite of the freedom Dutch was chasing. Still, it would be nice to die with the knowledge that Dutch wouldn’t find himself swinging from a tree the following week. Hosea, in his arrogance, still believed himself the only person capable of keeping Dutch out of trouble.

Lastly – lastly, he wanted Arthur to be happy.

He had a feeling there was a reason this item was at the bottom of his list. Hosea was aware of what they’d put on Arthur growing up, and how he’d risen to every task. Obedience wasn’t the same as happiness. But if Hosea had to go, it would be Arthur who was best suited to fill his shoes.

Hosea knew his place, knew the responsibilities that came with feeding their family, keeping them safe. It hadn’t made him happy. But sometimes it had let him sleep at night.

* * *

Dutch couldn’t stop _touching_ Arthur.

Arthur had only started noticing after the saloon in Saint Denis, then the reunion after his little chase through the streets of the city. Dutch had slung an arm around his shoulder when they’d met back up, all grand and sweeping gestures, but something in the touch had seemed desperate. The grip of his fingers just an edge too tight. Arthur wasn’t going to mention it, but then it happened again leaving Bronte’s villa – a gesture of congratulation, nominally, but also reeling Arthur in. And Arthur wasn’t sure if Dutch was just reminding himself that Arthur was still there, or if he was trying to exercise control.

They were all still on edge.

Dutch left the celebration early.

Arthur noticed in passing, but he was still too engrossed with the singing by the campfire, then. He drank little but laughed more, until it started raining like some Biblical storm, and the gang fled inside. There, they drank some more, until the warmth of the fire and alcohol had them peel off one by one to find their beds, promising sleep like they hadn’t known in days. Arthur made his way up to his own room, feeling full and happy, humming to himself quietly some tune Javier had put into his head.

He was caught aback by the silhouette of Dutch, backlit by a strike of lightning, in the broad double doors that led to the man’s room. Arthur took a moment to compose himself, trying to make light of it.

“You still up?”

Dutch just nodded, then turned back into his room, the open door behind him as much of an invitation as a command. Arthur ran a hand through his hair, still wet from the rain earlier. Then he followed. Dutch closed the door behind them.

He had a lantern lit and the curtains closed, moth-eaten as they were, to keep the mosquitos out. The room had been cleaned up somewhat, but it still looked painfully poor, Dutch the grandest thing in it.

“I hated that guy Bronte.”

The smell of cigarettes in the air was a small clue as to what Dutch had been doing up here alone. Arthur could picture the rage and frustration turned inward, Dutch lighting one cigarette after the other, trying to work through the memory. Going by the curl of his mouth, the disdain on his face, it hadn’t worked.

“He’s as slimy as they come;” Arthur agreed.

“He thinks he knows who we are.” Dutch paced the length of the room. “Came here ten years ago and now he thinks he _understands_ this country. Hah.”

There wasn’t even a hint of genuine amusement in his laugh, just glass shards and razor blades.

“Well, it doesn’t matter. We’ll use him to get what we need and then we’ll be gone.”

Arthur kept quiet. With Dutch in a mood like this, it was better to keep quiet. Dutch talked himself out, and when he was done –

Dutch’s eyes fell on Arthur.

“He’s not a real man,” Dutch said, “He doesn’t know what life is like. Not like we do.”

Arthur knew what was going to happen before it happened. Anticipated Dutch moving forward, seizing Arthur’s upper arms and pressing him back against the wall, his eyes hard and merciless and cold. So different from the way he’d been in Bronte’s salon, where Arthur, for the first time, had thought he’d glimpsed something human behind the bravado and the mask of Dutch Van Der Linde.

He’d always suspected the price for that knowledge was high. He was about to find out how high.

Dutch led him – and Arthur let himself be led, more dance than directive – to the bed. Dutch shoved him and Arthur went, a little surprised. Dutch followed, the expression on his face a mixture of amusement and hunger that made Arthur self-conscious no matter how many times he found himself crawling into Dutch’s bed. Dutch had such self-confidence where Arthur felt undone by nothing more than the idea that Dutch might want him. He still wasn’t sure that Dutch wanted him.

“Bronte thinks he’s big because he bought the mayor of some shithole town.” Dutch settled over Arthur, sank a hand into his hair and pulled his head back. Arthur felt teeth graze over his throat and his hips twitched. There was anger when Dutch moved. “Thinks he can tell us what to do, send you around like errand boys. _You’re mine_.”

Dutch’s hips, pressing firmly against Arthur’s. Frantic and too hard and pushing the air out of Arthur_. Then why’d you let him do it_, Arthur didn’t say. He knew better than that.

Dutch hefted himself up on his elbows and undid Arthur’s pants with well-practiced movements. Arthur tried not to buck up into the touch but failed, the warmth and weight and control of Dutch’s hand around his cock too much, as always.

“Dutch, _fuck_…”

_Take it easy_, he wanted to say, the touch of Dutch’s hand too fast, too tight, but he couldn’t form the words, or every time he did, Dutch stroked him again and Arthur bit his tongue out of habit. Dutch was apparently set out to ruin him.

The price of seeing the man behind Van Der Linde. The demonstration of control after the fact, while making Arthur lose his. Arthur wanted to touch Dutch, to find some purchase on the man, but his hands felt weak, his arms not quite working right. He could only stare at Dutch, eyes wide open.

“That’s it,” Dutch whispered. “My boy.”

“Please,” Arthur said, a plea for mercy. Dutch kissed him.

Arthur felt like crying. The sensations were too much: the heat of their bodies, the humidity in the air, and still the anger in Dutch.

When Arthur came, the relief was more palpable than the pleasure. Dutch kept stroking him as Arthur’s hips twitched and he covered himself and Dutch’s hand in white streaks of come. It felt like Dutch was determined to pull the life out of him. He only stopped long after Arthur had stopped coming, his balls sore, his cock aching, and he couldn’t contain the helpless whimpers coming out of his mouth anymore.

Dutch looked down at Arthur, appraising his work. Arthur was panting, his face flushed and hot.

When Dutch nudged his legs apart, Arthur almost protested. There was no way he was going to let Dutch fuck him. The way he felt right now, it might kill him. But Dutch just pulled his cock out and slipped it between Arthur’s legs. Arthur understood, pressing them together tightly.

Dutch moved with abandon. If Arthur thought his anger had bled through earlier, this proved him wrong or at least showed him a new dimension of it. Dutch’s hand was knitted tightly into Arthur’s hair, tilting his head back, Dutch’s face buried in Arthur’s neck where he muffled the grunting sounds he made. When he came, Arthur felt it hot on his thighs.

He thought of Blackwater, then. It was a strange thought, he wasn’t sure what had brought on the memory, but it was visceral in its intensity: Dutch’s eyes on him, calculating, and the way he had bought Arthur’s faith. And Arthur, knowing they were going down a wrong path, willingly walking it anyway, because of those eyes.

Dutch hefted himself off Arthur, leaving Arthur to clean up while he pulled back the curtain and peered out the window, his back turned on Arthur. Arthur pondered staying, decided against it.

Dutch let him know when he needed Arthur, and Arthur had just been dismissed.

* * *

**INTERLUDE: Charles Smith and the Reverend bury Kieran Duffy**

He used to have a speech he’d give in situations like this. _Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust._ He never liked it particularly.

He’s not sure Kieran would like it, either, if he still had a say in things.

The Reverend looks at Charles Smith, then at the fresh mound of the grave and wonders if Charles has buried many people he cares about, if that’s why he seems to take it all in stride. Then, he simply asks. Anything is better than the silence.

“I have,” Charles says, “A couple.”

Then he volunteers no further information. The Reverend can respect that.

Looking back at the grave, he suddenly envies the Catholics down here their sacrament of confession. They’ve all done terrible things: Kieran, Charles, Dutch, Sean, Arthur, even the Reverend. And he’s been raised to believe that forgiveness can only come from repentance, which is not something he sees in the hearts of any of them. How much easier it would be to place one’s absolution in the hands of someone else.

How he longs to be forgiven.

Instead, he has to take the grave in front of him as evidence that he is not.

At least he can do one more thing, if his memory permits. It’s been a while since he’s read from St. Paul’s letters. He takes a deep breath, raises his hands in a blessing.

“The body that is sown is perishable, it is raised imperishable.”

He casts one hand of soil.

“It is sown in dishonor; it is raised in glory.”

A second hand of soil.

“It is sown in weakness; it is raised in power.”

The third hand of soil. He blesses the grave with a sign of the cross, then hangs his head. There’s dirt under his fingernails now. Charles nods gravely, as if co-signing the Reverend’s words. The Reverend wonders, wonders and can’t recall how many times he conducted a funeral service, promised resurrection and divine forgiveness without believing in it himself. The only saving he’s experienced has been at the hands of people who were so very plainly not instruments of God’s will.

He hopes that wherever Kieran is, he is at peace. He knows that he is probably not. He fears that it’s neither of the two possibilities, that whoever Kieran was, the thing that _made_ him, is just gone now, save for the memory that they all have of him. The guilt of not treating him better while he was there.

Charles puts a hand on the Reverend’s shoulder.

“Come on. Let’s go join the others.”

More dead. More bodies. Time again for him to remember their failing at several Commandments. _Thou shalt not kill_. He is sure that Kieran is only one of the first to pay for their failings. Funny how he can’t believe in resurrection, but the evidence of divine punishment is plain to him.

Charles chuckles.

“Arthur’s probably cursing him out for dying on us right now.”

The Reverend manages a weak smile.

“That does sound like Arthur.”

They make their way back. The Reverend is not in a hurry, and neither is Charles. Both of them – separately, without knowing the other is thinking it as well – are currently contemplating the fact that it does not pay to hurry towards death.

* * *

**Shady Belle.**

Illness could shrink a man. Arthur had heard that before, had even seen it on a couple of people who had somehow made it to old age in this country. He’d never seen it happen to someone he knew, much less in front of his eyes.

But Hosea looked so small now.

“He’s going to ask.”

Hosea didn’t say who, didn’t say what. He didn’t even look at Arthur, just lowered his newspaper somewhat, as though to make sure the words came through clear. His face, Arthur thought, looked like candlewax. His cheeks sunken in, cheekbones more pronounced than before, and where some might see that as giving Hosea an air of dignity, it just scared Arthur.

“Hosea…”

Arthur, once again knowing what was happening, wanted to stall for time. Maybe hell was a place where people said all the things to you that you didn’t want to hear. It was certainly Arthur’s idea of a terrible place.

“Denial is a luxury we can’t afford now, Arthur,” Hosea said, “Things are coming to a head. It’s important to know where we stand when the hammer falls.”

It all sounded rather cryptic to Arthur, which led him to believe that Hosea didn’t know any specifics. Hosea, unlike Dutch, was a man for specifics. He thought about what Dutch had said, about Hosea and the fear of death.

“We’re so close,” Arthur said.

So close to a vision they just needed to believe in. A vision Dutch painted with words when they sat together by the campfire, like it was waiting for them just outside the ring of light. A feeling more than a goal, the belief that there was something for them out there. That all the suffering, the privations and losses would amount to their reward in the end.

“We’re about as close as we’ve ever been,” Hosea scoffed, “If you hadn’t noticed, we’re in a swamp. And you know what happens to people who don’t step carefully in a swamp?”

Arthur made a noise that indicated he was happy to hear Hosea tell it.

“They get eaten.”

Arthur barked out a laugh, dry and more like a cough. It broke the tension. Hosea lifted his newspaper again, flipped a page and hummed thoughtfully, the way he did when he was engrossed in his reading. Arthur pulled out his journal and began doodling, until he realized he was sketching the gaping, tortured vision of Kieran’s face. He quickly flipped the journal shut.

“He is going to ask, though.”

This time, Hosea didn’t look up from his newspaper, didn’t put it down. And Arthur was back in his hell where people told him things he didn’t want to hear.

“What do you think he’ll ask?”

They shared a look, then. Sometimes Arthur forgot that, for all his nagging, Hosea had loved Dutch first and had loved him most. Surely, his doubts weren’t a sign of a lack of faith in him now. No, it was faith in the man Hosea had met over twenty years ago.

“He’s gonna ask for something I hope you’re not prepared to do,” Hosea sighed, “But I hope we all know what we’re willing to do and where we’ll draw the line when he does.”

Going by Hosea’s expression when Arthur made his choice up on the balcony to go after Bronte, he’d gotten it wrong again.

* * *

“You were right.”

Arthur was smoking a cigarette, trying to calm his nerves, to shake the sense of wrongness creeping over him. He still felt itchy all over from wading through the swamp. He was sure if he checked tonight, he’d find leeches on his body and any number of critters in his boots.

Hosea sat by the fire; legs outstretched. Arthur felt grateful for the lack of anger on his face – there rarely ever was with Hosea. Everybody always the prodigal son to him. Hosea had faith that eventually, people would come around to see things his way.

“Why don’t you sit, Arthur.”

At first, he thought he’d be too nervous to sit, adrenaline and worry thrumming through his body more potent than alcohol, but he could already feel the exhaustion underneath. When the cocktail abated, he knew he’d be dead on his feet.

He collapsed by the fire, giving a grateful nod to Hosea.

“You were right,” Arthur repeated.

It was late. Most everybody else was asleep. Dutch and Arthur had gotten back late, and now it was later still. The lack of shouting from upstairs indicated that both Dutch and Molly had retired as well. The fact that Hosea had stayed up was the only _I told you so_ that Arthur would accept.

“What happened?” Hosea asked.

Arthur shrugged. “I don’t know. It just… didn’t feel right.”

_Micah is the only one around here with any loyalty._

It had felt like falling. It had felt like the dreaded end of a fall, exactly as painful as pictured. It had felt like a slap in the face, the disregard of twenty years of faithful service, a tool discarded.

“What do we do now, Hosea?”

He looked at the man with the answers, the clever words, the schemes and schemes in schemes. Now that one father had disappointed him, he looked to his other father to save him.

“We keep our eyes open. We gotta be ready for the punch when it comes.”

* * *

A long time ago, when Arthur was still young, Hosea had taken a couple of slow summer afternoons over the course of several months to instruct him in the art of boxing. Not simple fistfighting, he’d said, but the real sport, the way they did it over in England, with rules and everything. Said it’d make Arthur a better fighter, to know how to throw a punch properly. Arthur had been lousy at the technical aspects of it, found they didn’t help him much in a fight. But for a couple of summer afternoons, it had been a fun excuse to get away from camp and let off some steam.

The thing Hosea had imparted upon Arthur with great care was the dual nature of boxing. A fistfight was little more than elbows, teeth, and fists, but boxing always came in twos: a jab, and a punch.

“You jab with your left hand,” Hosea had explained, demonstrating stance and movement, “It’s your primary weapon. But it’s also a distraction.”

And the grifter had glinted in his eye – Hosea loved a distraction, loved a good magic trick, loved a _watch this card_ while he pulled the money from your pocket.

Hosea pulled his left fist back, tucked it nice and tight against the side of his face for protection, like he’d shown Arthur earlier.

“But you punch with your right. And you make your body move with it, so that’s where the real force comes from. While they’re still preoccupied with your jab, you punch.”

He demonstrated the punch, the way his body moved with it, force of the punch not in the fist but in the rotation of the body, the moving fist only the last piece of a destruction long prepared. Hosea’s fist connected with the tree, and the resulting thud was deep and hollow. Arthur still remembered the sound.

* * *

Arthur hadn’t spent a lot of time trying to imagine what dying would feel like.

Somehow, he’d forgotten how quickly it could come – the gradient replaced by a full stop, a hard break, a cut. No more colors. Only black.

He couldn’t look at Hosea.

He couldn’t look at Hosea, because if he did, he’d see the undeniable proof that everything had gone to shit, and he didn’t want to know what would happen then. And so he didn’t look at Hosea, and he didn’t look at Dutch, and he shot people who needed shooting lest they would shoot him, and he felt the knockout ring of the punch.

Hosea had told him. And Arthur hadn’t been ready.

* * *

**Guarma.**

Only when Bill had wandered off and Micah had found an outpost from which to guard did Arthur realize that the jungle was incredibly loud. He’d thought the prairie was loud. He’d thought the swamp was even louder. Then, he’d thought the city was the loudest it would ever get around him.

And then this godforsaken jungle proved him wrong.

They hadn’t dared light a fire, for fear of who might see them. It was hot enough without one, but the smell of woodsmoke might have at least provided some comfort, some semblance of home. Like this, all smells were unfamiliar to Arthur, and every noise cause to reach for a weapon at his side that wasn’t there anymore.

He knew Dutch wasn’t sleeping, either. He’d spent enough time in the man’s company to know when Dutch was sleeping.

“Hey.”

His voice was raspy, like he’d swallowed a handful of this godawful sand, like he’d taken a deep gulp of saltwater and all the water had evaporated and only the salt remained. It felt that way, too, all raw and awful and aching.

“I know you’re awake.”

He wasn’t sure if he was expecting a reaction, or what he would do with one if he got it. It was a call and response game, the way some of these birds were doing, informing each other of their position, assuring each other that they were still there.

“I am.”

In the half-light of the jungle, the figure of Dutch rousing himself from his makeshift bed looked like something dreadful. The red of his vest resembled bloodstains on his white shirt, his face pale and beset by deep shadows. Arthur wondered what he’d do if he would never see this face again and found the thought too terrible to ponder. There was nothing on the other side of the abyss, the mountain of a man that was Dutch.

“They got us good,” Arthur said. That wasn’t how he’d sketch it out in his journal, but finding the right words had never been his strong suit. Given enough time, maybe. Given enough time he’d be able to put the fear he felt into words. The unspeakable feeling of loss. The emptiness. God, the fucking emptiness in his chest.

“Come here.”

Dutch beckoned him over. His spot of the floor looked no more or less comfortable than Arthur’s. When Arthur sat down next to him, Dutch pulled him into a tight embrace. It wrapped around his back, pulled his head into the crook of Dutch’s neck. It shook Arthur, desperate as it was.

“We’re still alive, son.”

The words were more breath than sound. Arthur felt them over his neck, felt them in his heart.

“Hosea –“ Arthur choked out, and Dutch shushed him. “I know, I know.”

Arthur wanted to scream. Arthur wanted to howl. The one thing Hosea hadn’t seen coming, the punch he’d missed because he’d been looking the wrong way this entire time. Thinking he knew the thing that was going to kill him and then it was another and –

“It’s not fair!”

“I know,” Dutch murmured.

_I deserve what I’ve got coming,_ Hosea had said. Well, Hosea had been wrong. He didn’t deserve this end.

“He should have –“

“Shut up, _I know!_” Dutch pulled Arthur to his feet, still holding on to him, and slammed him against one of the rickety stone walls of the camp. Arthur felt it rattle his teeth, push the air out of his lungs. They stared at each other for a moment, and whatever Arthur had said about wanting to see something human behind Dutch’s mask, if he could take it back, he would. It was easier when Dutch looked like he had all the answers.

“Fuck,” Arthur mumbled.

He bridged the distance between them just so that he wouldn’t have to look at Dutch’s face anymore. Dutch tasted like stale breath and the rum they made in these parts. He gave a small hum when Arthur kissed him, pitched just high enough for Arthur to read the desperation from it. The fear of loss. The goddamn emptiness.

“I thought I’d lost you,” Dutch said.

A mirror. A déjà-vu. They had been here before, they would be here again, maybe. And in between would be the terrible things they’d do to keep it from happening again.

“Why did you let him do it, Dutch?”

When Arthur pulled back, panting, he surprised himself with the first question out of his mouth. But he wanted to know, he needed to know. There must have been a decision at some point. A decision that could have been made to salvage this, if only they had known back then. The point where they had gone wrong.

Again.

“Shut up,” Dutch responded, shaking Arthur with it.

“You had your doubts,” Arthur panted, “Fuck, we could have left _weeks_ ago. That business with Bronte…”

“Shut up,” Dutch said, louder this time. The hand he had fisted in Arthur’s hair pulled, hard enough to make Arthur’s vision swim for a second. This wasn’t a warning. It was the punishment.

“Lenny…”

“I said,” Dutch said, and this time he didn’t let up when he pulled, just kept tilting Arthur’s head back until it hurt his scalp and his neck, “_Shut up_.”

Arthur would have. He was hard, and part of him wanted nothing more than for Dutch to fuck him until he couldn’t feel anymore, to take that as substitute for grieving, but there was an even stronger part of him that wanted to hurt the world until the world would hurt him back – rage, directionless, simmering in the tropical heat.

“Real nice paradise you found us here.”

He caught Dutch’s gaze, and the anger in it was something tangible, was something he could push back against. Better than lying on a straw mattress, staring up at the sky, blaming himself.

Dutch shoved two fingers in his mouth, pressing down on his tongue, and Arthur bit at them – not hard, but enough to challenge. Dutch slapped him. There was a moment when they both stared at each other after that – challenge and counterchallenge, waiting to see what came of it. Then, Arthur breathed out through his nose. Dutch let go of Arthur’s hair and unfastened Arthur’s pants, pulling out his cock and stroking it once, twice, three times, making Arthur buck and twitch with practiced hands.

“Sarcasm is an ugly trait on you, Arthur. I gave up just as much as you did, if not more.” His voice was low, and dangerous, a warning in tone if not in words. “But we both know you’re gonna listen to me in the end, don’t we?”

Arthur wanted to protest. If their positions had been different, he would have hit Dutch, a jab to the left, the punch from the right, and then the pain blooming on his knuckles, the satisfaction of having drawn blood, but Dutch still had his fingers in Arthur’s mouth and Arthur’s cock in his hand and Arthur couldn’t even shout his rage.

He glared at Dutch, and Dutch ignored him. Passed over his protestations, like he’d done so many times. Arthur hated him in that moment. Really hated every goddamn minute he’d spent listening to Dutch tell him everything was going to be alright. Nothing was alright. And Dutch was still leading him on.

“Now, get these good and wet for me, son.”

The fingers pressed down on his tongue again and Arthur felt it shoot through his entire nervous system. His breath came faster, the air warm against Dutch’s knuckles.

When Dutch pulled his fingers out, Arthur protested. “Dutch…”

It was the look that silenced him. There was something about the looks that Dutch gave him that made him shut up faster than his own brain could catch up. Habituation. Training so deep he couldn’t undo it.

Dutch pulled Arthur’s pants down, reached a hand around to shove in a finger. Arthur hissed. “Fuck you.”

Dutch gave him another look. “Say a word and I’ll stop.”

The challenge in his eyes was obvious to Arthur. The hand that wasn’t opening Arthur up was still stroking his cock lazily, and even though Arthur wanted to say one thing, his body was saying something else.

“Fuck you,” he repeated and kissed Dutch.

Surrender always felt like falling, not knowing when he’d land or where. Arthur knew in that moment that Dutch was never going to be there for him the way Arthur was whenever Dutch needed him. That wasn’t the kind of man Dutch was. And Arthur wished he was a man who would do something with this realization besides sigh into Dutch’s mouth when he shoved a second finger into Arthur, but he wasn’t. He was just the man who harbored doubts but held his tongue about them.

After all, if he did say something, he’d lose this, and then it’d just be him and the emptiness.

“You’re a bastard,” he muttered, though his breath was coming hard and fast and he felt like he needed to close his eyes to keep the sensations from killing him: the damned tropical heat, Dutch’s fingers inside him, the smells and the sounds of the jungle, and the sight of Dutch in front of him a symphony that wanted to reach its crescendo.

“You’re still with me, though,” Dutch responded, “That makes us the same, doesn’t it?”

Arthur protested, more sound than words. Dutch pulled out his fingers, let go of Arthur’s cock. Unfastened his pants.

“You never even listened to Hosea. Would it kill you to listen to one of us?”

Dutch looked up at him in that way of his, dark eyes holding the potential for violence that never escalated, the mere threat of it enough to send men cowering. It didn’t work so well on Arthur.

Dutch spat into his hand and used it to slick up his cock. Arthur held his gaze the entire time, unblinking, trying for fearless and probably missing by a mile. He wanted Dutch. He wanted to hate Dutch.

“Have a little faith, would you?”

Dutch spun him around. The first push was excruciating. Arthur wanted to close his eyes but didn’t. He hissed, and cursed under his breath, but he kept his eyes open.

“In what?” He asked, and it sounded a little more broken than intended, but he got the words out.

Dutch pulled out, only to thrust back into him. It was too dry, pleasure that came with a flavor of pain almost the only way he knew, and Arthur laughed when it hit him, bright and sparking all the way into his fingertips. It was angry. It was punishing. It was what he deserved for pushing back, maybe.

He grasped at the wall, no solace to be had in the physical presence of Dutch, who wasn’t going to offer an answer. No embrace, just Dutch’s chest against his back, still clothed. The cloth rough, and sticky from the saltwater.

Dutch thrust into him again, and again, and again. The noises they made were barely louder than the ambient noise of the jungle, but they were twice as loud to Arthur for their familiarity. The way Dutch moved, the way he breathed, the sound of their skin and their moans.

“I take care of you, don’t I, son?”

It was hard to argue the point when Dutch’s hand closed a tight fist around his cock, doing his best to jerk him off in time with his thrusts, and Arthur found himself lost in the twin sensation of Dutch in him and Dutch’s hand on him. He felt… something. Something that was better than the emptiness, better than rage, but whether he felt good or just relieved because the punishment he felt he deserved was finally here, he couldn’t say. He gave in, closed his eyes, let his head fall back.

“That’s it,” Dutch mumbled, and the pace of his hand quickened. Arthur made a small sound at the back of his throat, a curse that lost its form before it could become a word.

“What if it’s me, next time?”

Arthur wasn’t scared of dying. He was scared of what it would do to Dutch. He wanted to hurt him, in the hopes that might make him see reason, but beyond the pain there was only madness for Dutch Van Der Linde, it seemed.

Dutch didn’t say anything. Arthur didn’t open his eyes. Let that be a question that would find its own answer, in time. He wasn’t going to last like this, anyway.

After thinking he’d never see Dutch again, the feeling of Dutch all around him was overwhelming. Behind all the anger and blame, there were still two men who were glad to see each other. At least one man. Arthur wasn’t sure Dutch could still feel happiness, or if that part of his heart had been eaten by the belief that he was owed good fortune.

Arthur wasn’t going to last, not when Dutch was filling him and filling the emptiness inside of him. He didn’t want to give Dutch the satisfaction of knowing how easily he could be undone but knew this was a battle long lost. Dutch knew him. Dutch played him. Dutch took care of him.

In his way.

He was close.

Arthur risked a glance over his shoulder, and the look of determination on Dutch’s face did him in. The eyes that said they would stop at nothing, those had always been the eyes that Arthur had looked to, that had made Dutch a man worth following, and so Arthur would follow him even in this. He made a helpless noise, feeling like there was something he still wanted to say, something that would let him win this strange argument, but his orgasm hit him like a shock, and he clamped his mouth shut as Dutch worked him through it. Dutch’s eyes never left Arthur’s face, and Arthur could see the moment when the heat and the friction and the convulsing of muscles around Dutch’s cock tipped the man over the edge. He sucked in a sharp breath, pushed himself deep enough to hurt, and came warm and buried inside Arthur. The expression on his face was one of perfect absolution.

Sound came back slowly. The insects and night-birds that Arthur didn’t know, the rustling of leaves, the quiet sound of water in the distance.

Dutch pulled out, and Arthur hissed. For lack of another option, he pulled his pants back up, tucked his shirt back in. Dutch did the same. Then, they looked at each other.

“I’ll get us out of this,” Dutch said.

The emptiness in Arthur was different now. It was no longer hungry, eating at him, looking for more parts to consume. Now it just was – almost serene. He settled back on his makeshift bed.

“Sure, Dutch.”

* * *

**ENCORE: Abigail Roberts and Charles Smith bury Lenny Summers and Hosea Matthews**

They have to move in the night, like the thieves they are. It doesn’t bother Charles, but it does bother Abigail, in that way of righteous indignation she’s never quite been able to shake. Even if they are all terrible people, they should be allowed to grieve those they lost.

Charles takes Lenny’s body. He insists he can carry Hosea, too, but Abigail has been carrying water pails and little Jack around for a long time now, and she is stronger than most men will give her credit for. That, and Hosea’s body is feather-light when she lifts it, and the look on his face hits her again. How he’d known what was coming. How he’d known his luck had run out.

They fasten the bodies on the backs of their horses, then gallop out of town. They have to ride for most of the night to make it to the spot they picked out, and when they make it, the sun is peeking up over the mangrove trees, and it’s so beautiful Abigail wants to cry. It makes Charles smile when she points out the sunrise to him, though, and that’s almost worth it.

“They deserve to see the sun one last time.”

As if they’re seeing anything, Abigail thinks, blinking away tears. They’re dead.

Both of them dig. Charles is faster than her, but not by much, faster more through practice than strength, or maybe Abigail keeps pace with him because she has so much anger in her chest it could uproot this entire forest if she let it. Anger at John, anger at Dutch, and it flares up every time she has to look at Jack, back at camp, and see the fear on his face. A child shouldn’t know fear like that.

Hosea had known. Hosea had told her.

She wonders if Dutch ever figured out it wasn’t her that he hated so much, but she doesn’t think so. Hosea was his blind spot; he’d never thought that the man could have a disagreement with him and not tell him. Now the least Abigail can do is play this last grift for Hosea. He’d like that.

There is guilt when she looks at Lenny’s body and feels a surge of gratefulness that it’s not John. That could have easily been John.

But it isn’t – it’s Lenny, the stupid excitable kid who only stopped growing last summer, who excitedly followed Jack’s reading progress and lent her his novels when she ran out of things to read. Lenny, who seemed the only one of the men around camp that knew how to smile.

Abigail wipes her tears away with a handkerchief, then offers it to Charles.

“Do you want to say a few words?”

He smiles, a brave gesture in the face of so much pain.

“I think I’ve said everything I want to say to them.”

Abigail is not sure she could ever feel that way. She wishes she could, though. Close the page and put the book aside and know that it’s over and that’s okay. She turns to Hosea’s grave.

“You bastard.” The anger doesn’t sit right on her tongue. “I’ll miss you.”

She turns to Lenny, and just sobs. She sobs with the realization that she’ll be tasked with digging so many more graves like this, that one day she might even bury Jack in one of them if she isn’t careful. Then she sobs with the impotent rage that her care will have very little impact on Jack’s safety, because only stupid men make decisions around here, and she isn’t one of them. She can mend clothes, cook stew, bandage wounds, and bury her friends. A woman’s skills.

Maybe it’s time to expand her repertoire. 

**Author's Note:**

> The winter semester can kiss my ass, I finished this in spite of my long reading list.
> 
> Come yell at me about fictional cowboys on [tumblr](https://veganthranduil.tumblr.com).
> 
> Comments feed the writer in these dark and trying times.


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